Battle of the Bulge, For the Fifty-'Leventh Time

Apr 19

Apr 19 Battle of the Bulge, For the Fifty-'Leventh Time

Last night Best Friend asked me to help her with her three-year-old twins, my wonderful nephews. As I got myself comfortable, taking off my sweatshirt, my eldest nephew, who loves words, looked at me and said, “Tummy.” “Yes, tummy,” I replied in that Sesame Street way we all talk to children, patting my sizeable bare gut obnoxiously displayed from the effort of me heaving the size-large sweatshirt off my person. Yes, child, I have a tummy.

Then the fucker walked up to me, pointed at said tummy, and worded, “Baby.”

He’s lucky I love him and am used to him sounding words all over the place. But he tried it. As did the intake nurse during my medical physical last week, when she told me I am 193 pounds. That woman received a “Bitch, what?!?” she didn’t deserve. My apologies.

You don’t understand. My nickname growing up was “Skinny Bones Jones.” I weighed less than 100 pounds going into high school and left barely weighing 125, despite eating all the 20-piece chicken nuggets boxes I could get my hands on. And I wasn’t at all fond of working out. Finding yourself stuck under a barbell in high school PE, surrounded by a small and unhelpful cluster of people chuckling, “Free Willy,” kind-of leaves a mark. Marching band kept me thin in college, but once I moved to New York and began living on my own, reveling in what I discovered is my natural homebody-couch-potato state, 135 expanded to 160 and small shirts became mediums. I joined a gym—numerous gyms over the years—but couldn’t stay consistent long enough to see or feel a difference. So, the pounds slowly accumulated, primarily in the tummy I inherited from my father.

And here we are. It’s a month before my 45th birthday, I weigh more than ever, my size mediums are now larges, and toddlers think I’m carrying the next generation.

Deborah Cox has entered the chat, because ABSOLUTELY NOT!

I have much work to do.

First of all, looking back, 2006 Will didn’t know how hot he was. I could/should have done some damage! Damn. Hell, even in 2015, had I stayed consistent with working out. I coulda been had a man <sigh>. Bygones. I know there’s almost two decades between “Got ‘til It’s Gone” and “Bitch, what?!?,” and I’m under no delusions that I can get 2006 back, but I am determined to achieve the fourty-phyne medium I feel on the inside. I want to not feel so heavy all the time. I want medium shirts to fit well. I want to turn heads when I walk down the street. I want to see my dick again when I look down in the shower.

I am currently 193 pounds and 25.2% body fat.

My goal is 165 pounds and 15% body fat. My doctor will be happy with anything 170 and below. Admittedly, my main goal is to look better nekkid, but, additionally, it is vitally important that I lower my A1C.

Second of all...EVERYONE GO TO THE DOCTOR AND GET A PHYSICAL!!

The Hemoglobin A1C blood test monitors one’s blood sugar levels over time, typically the last 3-6 months. The resulting percentage directly relates to one’s proximity to diabetes, which gets clocked at 6.5%. African Americans are at a higher risk of developing diabetes for a number of reasons, both physical and emotional, but for most of us, the primary factors, aside from genetics, are lack of exercise and poor diet. As my mom’s memory specialist put it:

“It’s not just about what’s on your plate, but how much is on your plate. Portion control is important, and you know we like to go back for seconds and thirds.”

He emphasized that as diabetes—having high blood sugar in general, really—can lead to dementia. My mom, for example, does not have a genetic disposition to dementia. Her situation is almost entirely a result of her lack of exercise and poor diet choices over the last thirty years..

Again...Deborah Cox.

For the last 3+ years my A1C percentage has hovered around 5.8%. But, at 6.0% my A1C, like my weight, is the highest it’s ever been. My goal is to get my A1C down to 5.6% or below; anything in that green, normal, range of 4.6%-5.6%.

Thanks to being unemployed, and my not wanting to fall into clinical depression, I have started making exercise a non-negotiable in my daily life. Gym; a walk; bowling; nephew-helicoptor-ing. To quote Elle Woods, “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't shoot their husbands, they just don't.”

I am proud to say I’m currently on a three-week-streak of hitting the gym three times a week, and I have been monitoring what I eat with the use of a meal and calorie tracker. I am not proud to say, however, that snacks be snackin’ and are a worthy and undisputed adversary.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, I keep reminding myself. Ain’t trying to get to 165-15, as I call it, by the summer, but my DMs are open to dudes seeking a pregnant-looking-otter-type. Wait, am I an otter? I’m not a twink, not yet a daddy. Conversation for another day,. Regardless, I do hope to reach my 165-15 goal by December 31, 2024, and master maintenance of my Fourty-Phyne self in 2025.

Keep me honest, y’all. If you see me with a donut in my hand, or my third/fourth drink at the kickback, point to my stomach and say, “Baby.”

That’ll do it.